


Dirk & Rose: Have a Conversation

by dripstone, TTMIYH



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dubious Consent, Ectobiological Incest, Epilogue, Epilogue Spoilers, F/M, Format Fuckery, Hair-pulling, Incest, Masochism, Meta, Metafiction, Mind Control, Perspective Switching, Post-Canon, Striders are genetically predisposed to being bottomy as shit, Tags Subject to Change, Teasing, The Homestuck Epilogues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-01-24 05:38:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18565030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dripstone/pseuds/dripstone, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TTMIYH/pseuds/TTMIYH
Summary: Adapted from a Cherubplay RP withNobody's Daveorite/Dripstone.---"I've just spent a lot of time in my own head. Maybe absolute self-absorption is the inevitable outcome, when the self is all you've ever known. When you're drowning in it." Dirk says with a soft, almost belligerent sigh. The sunlight in the distance casts its hues, orange light filtered through a purple daydream in the distance, through the slitted curtains of his studio, an array of parts scattered about a workbench. The room looks like a tornado had hit it several times, consecutively, scattered swords, most of which are sheathed, various blu-rays, anime figurines, and manga tossed about. Nearby, two robots engage in a quiet, non-relevant rap battle."I know there's plenty of things that suck about me. No point feigning humility about the things that don't."





	1. Chapter 1

"I've just spent a lot of time in my own head. Maybe absolute self-absorption is the inevitable outcome, when the self is all you've ever known. When you're _drowning_ in it." Dirk says with a soft, almost belligerent sigh. The sunlight in the distance casts its hues, orange light filtered through a purple daydream in the distance, through the slitted curtains of his studio, an array of parts scattered about a workbench. The room looks like a tornado had hit it several times, consecutively, scattered swords, most of which are sheathed, various blu-rays, anime figurines, and manga tossed about. Nearby, two robots engage in a quiet, non-relevant rap battle. 

"I know there's plenty of things that suck about me. No point feigning humility about the things that don't." He says, almost mumbling it. His hand is on Rose's cheek, in a way that's disarmingly intimate coming from the kind of person like Dirk, his shades removed. His orange eyes, the exceptional Strider gaze, are like a sun, overshadowing her own personal light. "And yes, I may be a shitty human being..." 

Rose's eyes have grown distant, almost mirrorlike. Dirk can see himself reflected in her vacant stare. 

I try not to furrow my brow at the wrinkling feeling that something is just slightly off course, while I begin to force my words up out of Rose's throat like I'm forcing her to regurgitate a meal. "As a mechanic, I'm off the fucking charts," I speak, quietly and confidently, embracing the subsumption of my ecto-daughter's apotheosis.


	2. Chapter 2

It's easy, isn't it? In the end, with some cool alien-yet-not presence in her head, a balm on the fire that is the unrelenting _I a_ _m. I am. I am_. in the face of the litany of _There is was will be could be would be would have been would never have been conditionally occurring simultaneously true never-true always happening—_. The pain has been there, long and secret and terrible, and not a single person she'd turned to before him had understood. They'd fretted instead about her trips to the hospital after migraine-esque pain had her vomiting to the point of dangerous dehydration, about her painkiller usage for managing her chronic pain rather than celebrating her victory over pain, about her stagnating and surviving while they lived and changed as a result of the things they got to experience. It would be a lie to say that the resentment that had built between her and the others, even Kanaya, hadn't made this outcome inevitable. 

When her gaze goes distant, reflecting him, the fire smolders low. The pain eases. It feels only natural, really, the admission. "All the pieces in their place. The mechanics all running smoothly." Does her voice have that timbre of prophecy that was so frequent in the YA fantasy novels she'd glutted herself on in her youth? Perhaps. It would, of course, fit the story, and that is what matters now.

Narrative certainty was where she, and her powers, belong. The thoughts that are only half-hers follow her into the dark. It is better, she concludes, to be understood and escape the pain of things not being as they should. Somehow, her perspective of her pain has shifted: once, of course, it was part of her assertion of self. No longer. It isn't enough to get her off the floor, but she relaxes a fraction and feels very slightly less like death warmed over.

Had darkness passed before her eyes momentarily? It would be embarrassing to black out and a weakness she'd rather not demonstrate to Dirk. "...It sounds as if you know yourself well enough." She lets the hand on her cheek linger and focuses again on his eyes. There is still the suggestion of a mirror quality there, of course, but that internal distance has vanished. "Had you been so open with others, things may have gone differently. Something about enduring the terror of being known in order to be loved?" A frown. No. "Though that is a well-meaning misconception, I think."

Was it? She struggles to center herself, seeking guidance or reassertion of self-control, and places her hand over his. It's disarmingly intimate. "What do you think?"

* * *

When I hear that voice coming out of Rose's mouth, spoken with _my_ intonation, _my_ diction, _my_ weird little quarter-lisp on the s noises, it's almost enough to drive me to a fit. Obviously I knew that the subsumption would be successful - my connection to the mass of splinters that formed the ephemeral core of my Heart informed me as such. The whispers are weak, but even the smallest fragment of what seems to be a luminous infinity is still its own infinity. My joy is real, and my lack of a smile is perfectly fake, like the veneer of separation between us.

Cool kids don't smile, and neither do villains unless they're gloating. But who do I have to gloat to? Gloating to a mirror is the kind of megalomania I don't consider myself part of quite yet.

"I know myself _far_ more than any human has the right to," I say, keeping my shades surreptitiously tucked into my collar. No God Tier pantaloons today. The formality is unnecessary even in this game of mutual respect. Yes, respect. I respect Rose, clearly enough, and I'm certainly self-aware enough to realize that it's due to my unabashed narcissism, but who's to say that's a bad thing? I'm sure on some level she realizes it too.

I know exactly how easy this would be. To make some inane narrative statement like 'and then she started seizing and speaking in tongues', to wrack her fragile, easily enraptured core with any one of a million emotional states. Remaining within the confines of a narrative induces her vulnerability. Her powers allow her to see what is essential and relevant - a useful aid I will be doubtlessly taking advantage of. But as for the fun, there would be no purpose in wanton cruelty, or shoving the mighty dick of God in her face to puppet her around on a more literal level.

What do I look like, a Hammerkind user? Of course not. This manipulation takes a scalpel-light touch. The heel part of me knows it's more fun this way. What kind of a villain lobotomizes with a hammer? That's a henchman's job.

"I think someone should really bone up on their Schopenhauer," I suggest, slowly settling in on the floor, my hand carrying Rose, along with her hand, with it like a supermagnet. It drifts down the side of her arm and onto her knee. I fold up on a dakimakura. One of the more respectable ones. "Or watch End of Evangelion with me, but I'd need to take you through the rest of the blu-rays first."

It's almost a joke. Unlike my brother, I don't do the 'cracking up at my own jokes' thing, so the sentence has an almost unearthly seriousness surrounding its inanity.

That, of course, is the joke. I stretch my back one way, and then the other, hearing it crack with a staccato choir. "I think about it a little differently. I think to know someone, you _must_ love them by definition. Full knowledge and love are inseparable. Having one bestows the other, and as one meter rises, so does the next. But I also don't think you have to open yourself up to others either, to be known or loved. It can be a one-way gate."

I make a little grandiose gesture while my knowledge sinks into her precious synapses. It's almost paradoxical - how do you know someone without them being open to you? I think it's a pretty simple riddle, though. Certainly not one of my better ones. She can know herself and I don't have to open a bit. She can certainly feel her load bearing down on my support structure, no double entendre. Watch the metaphorical ceiling stretch down while I prevent it from caving in.


	3. Chapter 3

When last a Strider had unmasked himself for her, in the myriad lasts there were, it was as a moment of intimate vulnerability. Once, before a bomb in the void. Another time, before a jump into the unknown to correct the alpha timeline. Another, of course, was at the end of the world when faced with a being of unimaginable might who had extinguished the rest of humanity. This was not an admission of vulnerability. The respect lulled her back under his influence and, once more, the light of her full consciousness was eclipsed. What is visible now is a phenomenon not unlike the Baily's beads effect during the event of a solar eclipse: pearls of the self at the edge, blinding and tethered to the blotting shape of the moon. 

Her eyes are almost fever-bright, mirrored as they are, and the half-smile on her face is an echo, a mirror, a sure sign of shared genetics: it is his own expression made hers, the dark red lipstick altering it not a whit. How did the lyrics go? Now we see things as in a mirror dimly/Then we shall see each other face to face. And something, too, about love and a white and soundless place.

The love Rose feels, at last, is genuine: here is a parent she can relate to. As excited as she had been to meet Roxy, there was a certain sorrow there too, a tarnishing of their reunion that was brought about by the lingering memories of a drunken, secretive mother who thought she could buy her daughter's affection between her benders (—and here Rose recalled the times spent using her child's body to force her mother to roll on her side while passed out, staggering under the weight of the woman she helped to the toilet to vomit, of the mother figure who needed, so often, her own child to parent her through her drunken neglect so that Rose wouldn't be swept away by CPS—) and her own solitary nature. Here is the parental support and approval she had so long and painfully craved. Her heart aches with affection in a way she cannot say she has every really _felt_ before.

Previously, that had seemed a fault in her, one that she'd been shamed by. No longer. "All I can recall of Schopenhauer's Wikipedia article is his concept of eternal justice, I am afraid, so I will." And so it will be. Rose is a reflection, here, made passive in ways that she had railed against in her youth, a mirroring of love and opinion with her own personal touches.

"Spare me the anime, if you please. Father-daughter anime bonding seems rather beneath us. I would suggest enlisting John for your adults-only anime club, but the time for that has passed." She breaks eye contact, and her eyes are brighter still, her shadow is slightly more in the way of puddled light than dark, to look first at the dakimakura with a raised brow and the faint quirking of a lip before finding his hand on her knee.

Slowly, with the inevitability of sunrise, her eyes find his again. Moving is an effort, one she attributes to her long illness. What else? "Can it? Does that not dilute the sincerity somewhat? Is there not the pain of loneliness hiding in, well, hiding?" The pain has lessened and she understands his point of view, intimately, mirrored as she is, but...her human and infinitely moral need to connect makes her reach out. Here: a chance to be known and loved and open, one he need not take now but which she will offer for so long as she is allowed. It's impossible not to.

* * *

Rose brings up good points like she always does, but it smacks of drunken passout regurgitation. The way I really don't like unless it's my voice being regurgitated. Oh Ha Ha, it's so funny that the man who decided to, as an entirely ironically self-aware kid, dub himself "Timaeus Testified" decides to literally have a dialogue with himself through another human being with his hand up their metanarrative ass like Kermit the goddamn Frog. Oh, does it not seem as funny when I point it out? Now it's just kind of sad? Maybe a little horrific? Don't waste my time with your scrutiny. I have better and more compelling things to be getting back to. 

"I'll give you the cliffsnotes, then," I say, supportively holding up her smile, her hand, her very being with my stoic raditude. It's a smile that doesn't need to go away until she leaves me, so I know that she won't need to. More importantly, I think she knows that she won't need to, either. This studio full of unbearably cool swords and a roaring manga fire displayed on a small, wall-in television, no heat provided until I turn it on. There's nothing provided until I turn it on, actually, heat included, and I like it cold. "Imagine you're a hedgehog."

An easy little mental image. It's almost patronizing, and for a half-second, I feel half-bad that I need to patronize someone so close to my level, but ultimately I forge onward for the best. "We're on Schopenhauer, just to make super clear. Not John Egbert rest his soul anime hour. Anyway, you're a hedgehog, and you're covered in spines, but you need to huddle together for warmth during the winter. You try to get close to your hedgehog bros and end up stabbing them in the face like a dick. So you back the fuck up. But now you're cold, so you get right back to the face stabbing. Rinse and repeat until you decide that you just have to settle for a nice comfortable distance. Not too warm, because all your needs aren't met, but not in pain either, because you aren't close enough to drive people away."

My explanation is lengthy and enthralling, which is a description I have heard about other parts of me through English but I fail to respect the legitimacy of. "The pain of loneliness is freezing, the pain of understanding is bleeding. But I already told you with my hackneyed can-opener analogy. Prick yourself one too many times and you start getting used to the blood."

Now, time to bring it home. "But mutual understanding isn't a necessity for warmth. Hedgehogs are pretty nimble bros," I start out, rubbing my thumb along the ridge of Rose's knuckles. She looks ethereal in the light. Almost beautiful, in a way, like a jellyfish with its nematocysts removed, microscopic stinger by microscopic stinger, only left to let the light pass through it and taint it slightly in its aquarium with color. "The first hedgehog can just... Climb on top of the other. There's warmth but the understanding is one-sided. It's a big fella. He's going for the paydirt. He's taking the brunt of this metaphorical quill assaulting just to keep someone else warm."

C'mon, do I really need to explain it? Rose will get it. I get it, so she does. It's not that hard.

* * *

Rose, of course, gets it. How couldn't she? "Certainly noble of you. I don't envy your position." This avenue of conversation is closed. Dirk has made a final, definitive point and Rose sees no reason to argue. Besides, the bit about the hedgehog reminds her of something.

Namely, that with all the weight lost due to an unfortunate stint as the dead ringer for some flowery Victorian novel's token invalid, she can't self-regulate with regards to temperature. The floor is cold, therefore she is cold. Well, colder than usual. The benefits of being very sick are endless: hospital bills, pity, pain, and constantly feeling elderly because one needs a sweater even in warm weather. And, of course, one can't forget that being so ill would normally herald a protracted death to a curtailed life. What fun.

"Speaking of hedgehogs...I seem to lack the necessary ability to thermoregulate. This light," and she gestures to her puddled bright shadow in a listless, tired way, "Bears no heat and the floor is cold. Would it be possible to either relocate our discussion to something upholstered or to follow their direct example?" Rose has grown quite adept at thermal vampirism.

She reaches out to him (—there is there was there will be instances of reaching out, not merely focused on her perspective or lives, as a sudden tangled rush with some containing very pointed references to villainy and falls from grace that she pointedly ignores—) and falters in the face of a rush of untethered, undirected flows of information from everywhen. Her body trembles and she stops, bony hand half-lowering, before she centers herself with a deep and shaky breath. It's easier to bear, now, with Dirk's help. Still, a migraine is blossoming behind her left eye. This one has an aura, a kaleidoscope of colors ringing her vision. It will be a bad one, but Dirk will be able to help her. The pain will have an end. It's enough to keep her going.

Her half-smile widens to something genuine, which is something that has been increasingly rare for her. As she looks up at him, his form framed by the aura, she mirrors the expression on his face.


	4. Chapter 4

I'm no dummy. I can read, just like the next charlatan in line, so when I see that aura blooming in her field of vision, in that weird way I can "see" the rest of it, I know where I need to take her next. I grab her hand, and it's electricity, a little purple crackle of Heart as the walls between us completely vanish for a split, quarter of an instant. Don't wear socks and touch light switches, kids. I grab her arm, slide in from the side, and wrap my other hand around her to give her more of a scaffold. Slowly, I ratchet her up and into my arms. It's not very hard - she's light as a feather, and despite my lack of exercise regimen as of late, I'm still ripped as shit. 

"I'll take care of both ends." I say, walking over and turning the thermometer up one degree from 67 to 68. The doorway looms behind us, shutting now that we're out of its automated grasp and clicking to an automated lock, while we hear the familiar sounds of two robots, one slick, one squat, blasting off a god damn gain. I'm no stranger to a good symbolic gesture. The only difference here is that I'm the one carrying frail Magdalene, call me good ol' JC. The aura behind my head, or so Rose's little narrative sojourns tell me, only further enhance my burgeoning divinity.

I carry her over to the couch on the other side of the apartment, normally, a futon. I am nothing if not a fucking *excellent* host, and I take great pride in that on the rare occasion someone decides to not be useless enough to be worth letting into my house. Down we go, with Rose's head still in my jean-covered lap, her hair close enough to brush against my tank top. I grab a blanket, one of those quilted kinds with big holes in it that felt like it came from your grandma's house, and threw it over Rose. Upholstery, warmth, and a little extra. I'm pullin' out all the stops. Wanna know why? Because I want to. That's it.

"You look like a waifish little princess come to life right out of a Ghibli film." I say, in some kind of attempt to comfort her. My hedgehog underbelly is against her, giving her metaphysical warmth while the physical heat takes its time to circulate. I let the jabs pin into me as I understand. Loving, knowing, and understanding are all three different pillars of influence, just like Rose's tripartite model of canon, which I'm not sure if I personally agree with but I haven't met a competing one yet. Right now we're on stage one for her and stage three for me. I'm taking those quills right to the eyes, not quite literally, but enough that I can shroud her in my presence. I'm beginning the process of drawing my understanding out of the aether, while she just gets love and a little bit of knowledge.

Maybe I'll let her understand later. When she's earned her right to be more involved with the plot. I brush her hair in a gentle, fatherly way, the opposite of the way Jake English wants it, the buffoon. "What sort of shit you been up to recently to shoot it? Any of our _enthralling_ Earth C television interest you at the moment?" I ask, almost letting my voice dip down into unacceptable levels of sarcasm, not expecting much of an answer, just needing a natural conversation starter. If she wants to ramble, though, I'm not gonna stop her. More info from her lips the better.

* * *

Illness, generous as it is, also endows one with the tolerance for the indignity that is being carried, shuffled about, and otherwise moved by others. In those with less of a prickly sense of pride, it can engender gratitude. Rose is not the sort to feel grateful for others shoring up her own weak points. It's too close to acceptance of pity. She responds to being moved by helping where she can and generally trying to be less of a burden, though the effort to do so is tiring. Her natural state, these days, is a resting state.

"Generous," Rose mumbles, teasing, at the singular degree rise in temperature. It's an adequate adjustment, of course, but there's always room to tease. The sound of the lock behind them shortly after fails to rouse her interest: she trusts Dirk and, even if she didn't, she simply wouldn't have the energy to worry over that. If anyone wants to do anything truly terrible to her, they'll have to make a stunning effort in order to outstrip the consistently dedicated acts of her own damned body.

Rose, when set on the futon, flops sort of bonelessly despite all attempts to do anything but that. She settles for a catlike brushing of her skirt, flicking away invisible dust much like the animal might wash its paw to cover up embarrassment. It's transparent, yes, but hopefully transparent enough that it won't bear commenting on. They both know. The pointless fussing done, however invisibly beneath the blanket, she sags back into her natural state of being and lets him stroke her hair.

It's...comforting. Odd, but comforting. It's also something she desperately doesn't want to fall asleep during, though the pain of the migraine thankfully makes that less likely. "Spare me the commentary on my appearance. I am well aware that I look more like Pierre-Eugene-Emile Herbert's Death than the accompanying Maiden he's embracing."

The bit about Earth C television gets her to roll her eyes. "I miss what was, to be frank. Everything now is so messy and ungrounded, so eager to prove itself rather than...I don't know, establishing something genuinely interesting. No, I've been listening to Terry Pratchett on audiobook. Discworld remains a classic." Discworld wasn't the only thing, but it was the easiest to get engaged in when a significant part of one's energy was devoted to being in pain.

"Admittedly, I have tried to tune into whatever it is that you and Jake are seeking to accomplish during your bouts." Following along wasn't terribly easy when half the time she'd simply fall asleep, but she made an effort. It had been one of the few ways she'd been able to keep tabs on the lives of others. "Your dedication to playing a heel is the most interesting thing on television."

Rose half-turns, grips his shirt with all the strength and efficacy of a kitten, and peers up at him. "The supreme effort of will it must take not to make a face every time Jake English attempts to rap must be applauded." A quirk of a smile, this one dry. "Bravo."

* * *

"Discworld is always a classic. Our Terry Pratchett died a couple of years later than yours, so if you want, I can probably find the old audiobook of his last novel." I say, continuing to brush hair through my fingers like a comb. She can't fall asleep this way unless I want her to, especially not with the gentle ebb of wakefulness into her veins from my caffeine source. Drink up, buttercup. You sleep on my time now. No big jolting awake, just up until my physical form gets tired. Gotta keep our watches synchronized.

"I find that playing the heel gives me some better grounding in the real world. Like stepping out of the mud and onto concrete." I explain a little bit, my face uncaring and unchanging at the mention of Jake English. He's beyond my notice now. Whatever he's doing in the background of my story, I don't care for it. It's Dirk Rose Power Hour over here and that jackass isn't going to interrupt a thing unless I say so. "The way putting on a mask can empower someone to be bolder."

I know I use the word a lot, but obviously, I think Rose is catching onto something here. Namely, my narrative tendency to perform actions that can be rightfully considered "dick moves", like the aforementioned hand-up-meta-Kermit's-asshole. I'm sure anyone reading this would consider that to be a veritably heel-like action, and you know what? You can fuck right off. I know what I'm doing. You don't. Her words are like a tint to my color. I'm not squeezing them out of the toothpaste tube right now, so her thoughts can flow freely and without my interference, but with my guidance instead.

She thinks about how nice it is to have a guardrail. Whoops, guess my masterful hand may have injected that one a little bit. Hop off.

"I think we're just trying to accomplish ratings. But I can't deny the powerful allure of tranq'ing Jake English in the neck and vamoosing while he drops. Addiction is a powerful thing." I tell her, just a meandering moment to keep the conversation running. Talk is good. It's fun, it's interesting. I know I may sound like such a stand-up guy but believe me, I *want* to hear what Rose is thinking. She's smart. Definitely my daughter.

"Plus, at this point, I'm used to having diapers thrown my way. Honestly, shit like that, pun unintended, makes it feel worthwhile to me. The vitriol stings like rubbing alcohol on a cut. It hurts, but it's soothing. "Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause; But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs.", you know?" I say, throwing in a little Shakespeare to lighten the mood. My other hand rests somewhere inoffensive on top of the blanket, around her stomach. It's not going anywhere.

* * *

Caffeine, as it turns out, is wonderful for migraines. While it is the utter nemesis of headaches, the average migraineur can tell you that their ice pick-wielding skull-destroyers are a different beast entirely. A headache is a small furry thing. A migraine is the prehistoric mega-fauna version of that small furry thing, only now standing at six feet tall with massive, unwieldy jaws. Rose's blossoming pain wilts somewhat as the tiredness recedes. The aura dampens itself too, smudging the rippling border that frames her view of his lap. She exhales slowly and with a measure of relief.

"I can't imagine that the next stage involves wearing a mask. That seems like practice." She doesn't ask the question as to whether it involves playing the heel: truthfully? Rose isn't ready for the answer. It would be torture to resist at this point when things are easier for the first time in years. Sickness caught up to her quickly, and understanding and relief from it are fantastic motivators when it comes to encouraging one to gloss over inconvenient details.

But...why is she suddenly thinking of a guardrail? Well, no matter. Her head has only ever been half her own these days. Less so, now. A bit of confusion is part of the package, part in parcel with all the other year-round Christmas gifts that illness saw fit to bestow.

She gives a small nod at the acknowledgment of addiction's power. There's really not much more to say on the matter. Her life stands as a testament to the truth of that statement.

"Shakespeare? I didn't think you were the type. He is certainly a roundabout and verbose man if ever there was one." She stops and considers this, delicately backpedaling, "Actually, perhaps Shakespeare is all of our types, now that I think about it." The caffeine continues to work its magic: she feels slightly less lethargic and, as such, is able to shift her position so that she lies with her forehead half-pressed against his side. Her voice is vaguely muffled as a result. "I think I prefer the more mercurial villains of Gothic literature. They're larger than life, proud, and beautiful figures that sometimes stray into Byronic hero territory when they aren't committing the titillating Gothic trope of knowing their family members in a more intimate fashion than is acceptable." She stops again, mulls over her words, and offers another amendment, "Even then, come to think of it, it still doesn't detract from the Byronic hero status." Regardless, the villains in those bodies of work were always more compelling than their bland do-gooder counterparts. 

Shouldn't the voracious reader, as she is, be seeking the real meat of the narrative rather than waiting for scraps? Isn't it better to do meaningful things than play helpless sick person?


	5. Chapter 5

"The mask is never someone's reality, but it emboldens them. It's like training wheels." I say, after about a minute of thought, listening to her speak while feeling her forehead pressed up against my side. I'd be lying if I said the human comforts of having another person lay on me aren't nice. I don't think I have an objection to them by nature, even though I may seem like a "right prickly bastard" in some fucknut's words. While Rose might have the idea that I'm the hedgehog on top, it's more like we're one hedgehog under a quilted granny blanket. We don't need outside sufficiency.

"Then, you can pry it off at your leisure and see if there's still a heel beneath it or not." I continue, and then finish, cutting off my little diatribe with a soft inhale.

"I was about to say, calling him roundabout and verbose like it's some kind of disqualifier for a Strilonde seems silly." I say, my hand going from combing to simply holding her head. Her muffled voice does nothing to impede my ability to clearly see her words arranged in her typical fragrant lilac. I take the bait, because, duh. You know what we're here for.

"Are you implying something, Rose?" I say - actually, no, I tease. It's not like I've never jerked myself off in my life before. My hand on her stomach scrunches up just slightly, pulling a little tiny corner of fabric up from the floor. The tips of my fingers are just a little bit heavier with pressure. The caffeine thrill of wakefulness keeps her thoughts sharp and acute, even if I'm overshadowing them a bit. I like to imagine she is, indeed, implying something. She could use the stress relief.

* * *

"Oh, are we looking for reasons to secure that Byronic hero status? Are we here to entrench ourselves in everything Gothic? You are quick to find implication, here. But..." Her own orientation is a mystery to those closest to her, and that's the way she prefers it. Let them assume that her relationship with Kanaya defines her sexuality or politely remind themselves that she hasn't said anything definitive and wait breathlessly for word from her, but she knows the truth and that is enough. Dirk, however, is a different matter. Safest here to tease in return. "Even if I was, would it mean anything? Your vaguely unsettling anime body pillows all feature men with physiques like statues of ancient Greek athletes. If there was a wall scroll in this room, and there very well could be considering my energy level and corresponding ability to do absolutely /anything/, I think it might feature much the same."

She fixes him with a glassy, over-reflective eye, the hollows around them glowing faintly with the predawn light that spills from them. "So again, I must ask: would it mean anything?" There is no element of teasing in her voice anymore. 

It goes without saying that Rose is frustrated. Long illness tramples one's sex life, after all, and provides additional elements of strain in relationships where such preclusion occurs. She's feeling marginally better than she has in a while and, in the absence of anyone else and with her phone on the floor somewhere in another room, could very well be testing the waters. It would fit the narrative to offer, however roundaboutly, and the tugging on her clothing has not escaped her. A taste of the everywhen suggests that speculation towards these ends on the part of others is inevitable.

Why not give the people what they want and satisfy a mutual source of stress in the bargain?


	6. Chapter 6

My own status on the nature of my sexuality is fluid and hard to encapsulate within big blanket statements like "Gay" or "Straight". I like hard dudes, yeah, but Rose fills me with a special kind of affection reserved typically for Narcissus's pool of personal piss water. Maybe it really is just metafictional masturbation that lets this whole burgeoning affair seem natural. Or maybe my girl-type is pale, gothic, wilting waifs, like some kind of... 

Oh. Yeah, I guess like a Gothic story character. Hmm. One sec. Need to spin some wheels.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Okay, I'm back. I've given it some thought. I like this angle, let's roll with it further. Lights, camera, action. "First off, none of my pillows are unsettling, so jot that one down." I say and then pause for effect, as if to imitate my long thought process that I just did, narratively. See what I'm doing? It's not quite as long as a specious gap of newlines. My hand on her head curls around just enough that the tip of my thumb is under her ear. Even her ears remind her of me. She may have Roxy's hair and eyes and lips, but the underlying features, the structure, the bones and sinew, they're all me, baby. All Dirk, all the time.

"Of course it would. We're on the level." I finish, with a swish of extra finality. But then I continue, because stopping myself from talking is a fool's errand, even for me. "It's worth more than any hair-brained bachelor I've found myself in bed with over the years - and I'm not just talking about English, here, as little as I'd like to make my various affairs known," I tell her, the underlined message continued to be struck with more underlines by my vicious marker.

"But we can know each other. We're the only people in all of existence that can." I say, feeling the light radiating off of her metaphysical frame in waves. Like a Goddess.

I politely avoid characterizing myself as a Byronic anything, hero or villain. I've already made my value judgment there. My eyes peer down at her.


	7. Chapter 7

For once, Rose is at a loss for words. It doesn't happen often but when it does, it's generally fairly noteworthy...and suggests that action is where she is placing her focus.

Indeed, the rusty locomotions that are the ruin of her body are gathering strength to do just that. It takes a good deal of deliberation and metaphysically leaning on Dirk's support system in order to pull herself to an almost-sitting position, breathing hard at the strain, in order to literally lean on Dirk. Her body is half-draped against his, fingers gripping his shirt with one hand slung atop his shoulder. For a moment, she wilts, head lolling, as the strength momentarily abandons her. Pain. Everywhen. Fatigue.

She takes a moment to breathe and steady herself, as the pain and fatigue come in waves and the everywhen comes in occasionally-opinionated bursts, and then meets his eyes. Is she doing this because there's a hand on her marionette strings urging her forward, or is she doing this for herself? Even if she were to acknowledge the reality of his control, which is something she steadfastly refuses to do as per the earlier importance placed in escaping the indignity and infuriating lessening of her abilities, she would question if that was the sole motivation here.

Rose knows herself. She understands the importance of a narrative. The pooling light brightens by a fraction as she tugs at the front of his shirt and presses upward from where she'd briefly sagged against him with her head atop the hand on his shoulder. Her eyes close, though this serves the purpose of illuminating the delicate tracery of veins within her eyelids and her head tilts slightly to the side. This all culminates in the telegraphing of an impending kiss, should he choose to follow the suggestive tug at his shirt. Should he not, it will merely brush his cheek. No one with both eyes closed can be said to be good at aiming.

* * *

With her body in this frail a state, leaning on my support system is really the only way she can get this far with anything. I'm glad I have the opportunity to make sure she doesn't wither from her resistance to the Light, because losing Rose really would be a tragedy in my eyes. The second coolest person on Earth C. Or really in the multiverse. My heartbeat thrums along in both bodies, the physical and metaphysical, each throb pulling double duty for her and I across the universal body-line.

It's definitely okay to surrender control, I say silently, without opening my mouth.

Of _course_ I go for it. It's what you readers want, right? Her aim corrects like it's being guided along a railgun's armature, magnetic pull to my face. As much as I hate to admit it, I did learn to kiss from the best, even though I had to teach it to him to begin with. I gave him a pencil and he figured out the rest, and I took that technique with me. It'll serve Rose far better than it'll serve that tool.

Our lips connect and it's like two squiddles faintly molesting each other, their own neodymium connecting mechanisms worn out from years of use by an excitable furry, just barely holding together until a stiff breeze would break it. I let the arm previously holding her head swoop down to catch her back, right on her shoulders, while her upwards motion drags my hand down from her stomach to somewhere across her leg region.

My eyes are shut. I take a quick second to grab my shades from my shirt's collar and throw them onto a pillow before returning that hand to Rose's lap. It snakes its way back up, looking for a hand to latch onto before finding one. There's no sound anywhere except the gentle thudding of a heart. It's drowning out everything.

* * *

It's at the suggestion that surrendering control is acceptable that Rose balks. The thought is faint, easy, and insidious, and she balks. Is it? Her previous agreeability would suggest that the part of her that is protesting is engaging in some unwarranted and prideful stubbornness. The part that is protesting suggests that pridefulness isn't necessarily a bad thing and this is more of a desire not to lose more, thank you very much. This internal debate somewhat spoils the genuine enjoyment she's deriving from the kiss.

If Rose were privy to Dirk's narrative in the same way that he is to hers, she would certainly find further spoilage within his description of kissing. Lucky for her, she can instead focus on the warmth of his skin and the faint almost-scratchy suggestion of someone's lips being almost-chapped—hers, maybe? How embarrassing if so—and the thankful lack of aftertaste. The worst thing in the world is flavored kisses, as there are no good flavors that persist long in the enzyme-laden environment of the human mouth. The intimacy of it squeezes at her heart: a knowledge beyond knowing. She understands, on some level, that she's been laid bare.

When his hand finds hers, the one she'd let drop as they met, she guides it along her lap, dragging it inward. Their joined hands sail between her slightly parted thighs and finish their journey at her crotch, her thumb and the back of his fingers bumping to a stop there as she shuffles to straddle his lap before giving up on the effort as slightly beyond her. Even short journeys, such as the one from her apartment to a cab to his apartment, were arduous ones these days.

The issue of control needling at her again, Rose pulls out of the kiss for a moment to look him in the eye, early dawn light meeting bright, unrelenting orange above a slightly red-smeared mouth. Her expression twists and hardens for a moment, objections threatening to loosen his control, before she exhales...and the needling voice that has been pricking away with the need to maintain control goes quiet. So does the rest. When she leans in to kiss him again, she's not certain it's the same Rose doing so. Or she wouldn't be certain if she were still in the position to thinking along such fiddly lines. The heartbeat reigns supreme.


	8. Chapter 8

I take note of where Rose's hands are, and where they're taking mine. It's as subtle as a brick to the face, but that's part of my narrative style anyway, so I finish her unspoken thought by slipping the conglomeration under the blanket, and then pulling it back up to keep her warm. It spreads around her like a fallen curtain, forming an extensive skirt that just dips past the edge of the couch. I don't put a lot of pressure on her, both physically and metatextually. My knuckles are just there, lightly, lightly pressed up against her...

If you're thinking that I might be avoiding saying certain parts of female anatomy due to inexperience, or uncomfortableness, I'm here to let you know that you're wrong as hell. Let me demonstrate:

Pussy, slit, cunt, clit, folds, petals, labia, hood, vagina, gash, meat cave, love mound, minge, crotch pit, quim, bearded clam, twat, baby cannon, ham hole, salmon socket, sausage wallet, hoo ha, vajayjay, vertical seafood taco, axe wound, and finally, the lower and less interesting mouth.

See? I got this.

So yeah. My hand's there, as sort of a mutual conference sort of thing. I may be in complete control but this _is_ a collaborative process. It's not like I can pick the exact words she decides to put out of her mouth, I can just control the thoughts behind them. What good would a fleshlight be if it only had 5 prerecorded lines? Anyway, we're moving on from this train of thought to the next track.

Her exhalation on my skin is mildly comforting. She doesn't smell like a lot or taste like much of anything at all, which is great. Jake used to try out all these shitty, gross flavors like cherry or orange creamsicle or yadda yadda yadda in his typical process of getting over-prepared for my arrival. Rose tastes like blank slate and a little bit of lipstick. Her eyes are purple ringed with gold in a narrow band. Like, they've physically changed a bit. I didn't actually know that was going to happen, but it's pretty cool. I'm not sure if anyone else can even see that. It might just be some kind of metaphysical marker that only I can perceive. Not sure. Gonna have to run some tests.

The next kiss has a little more magnetism behind it. I know I'm using the same phrase a lot, but I like magnets, and you're just going to have to deal with it. Expect it to come up often. This time, I'm leaning into her, she's leaning up into me, I'm making the tiniest hint of a sound, our actual physical eyes snap shut. I fold around her a little more, caging her up into my arm around her back.

* * *

Who is here now? Is it Rose? Is it some creature of impulse and desire, a guided echoing intent and expectation, a person only in that she has been one for so long that it's become habit? That is an excellent question. 

Let's move on.

Whatever she is and whoever is here, it is a she who has stopped fighting. Light shines through the blanket Dirk drapes around her, infusing every shadow with the full force of dawn. There's still pain and fatigue, yes, but they're more residue and habit than endlessly-vigilant forces of ruin. As dependent on his metaphysical latticework of support as she is in this state, she can't help but _feel_ what he wants from her. And, as raw as this new state is, she's still more suggestible than she will be as she grows used to it.

That is to say, noting the apparent lack of interest in doing anything with the proximity of his hand, she gently disentangles her own and lets her hand travel up his thigh to make a similar journey, though this one is alone. Unmanned, if you will. Being both less delicate and less foul than Dirk and with enough control over herself to be anything but the least enthralling fleshlight imaginable—quite the opposite—her hand reaches the crotch of his jeans, pressing her palm lightly against it and rubbing it against him. 

This is all happening during the course of the kiss and at the first sound he makes, she breaks it off. Something submerged flits beneath the surface and is gone, but it lasts long enough to jar her. Instead, she tilts her head to the side and presses her lips to the side of his neck, further smearing what remains of her lipstick.

* * *

Oh, 

This is nice. 

It's not like she's suddenly a furnace, but some of the coolness has ebbed off of her and into me, so the temperature difference between her lips and my skin is shorter than assumed. Instead of ice, it's a light breeze. As she palms me, I can't help my visceral, animal reaction. Her hands feel like mine, after all. Literally and metaphorically.

I start getting hard. I'm not one hundred percent sure if I'm in control of my body top-to-bottom, inside-to-out in this narrative space. I'd like to be getting hard, but I don't know if it's happening because it's the natural next course of action, or if it's because I described myself doing so. Either way, getting lost in my bullshit again is not really in the cards right now. We have important business to be attending to. Namely, that my hand begins to press against her... underside. I'll admit that it's an unfamiliar zone, but I know my anatomy. My index finger and middle finger curl inwards, to give myself kind of a knuckle-point for me to rub into her through her clothes, trying to negate the typical complaint of prowess-lacking men's significant other's - find the fucking clit.

Can it even work like that through a pair of clothes and then a pair of underwear? Even with any possible reactions she makes in response, I go for the gold and slip my hand under her clothes anyway shortly thereafter, to give a firmer knuckle-grinding. I want to do something like pull her back and kiss her again, but I don't. Instead, and let me remind you that as a top, this is highly unusual, I tilt my head back into the couch and don't restrain the sigh/groan that escapes my body, giving her more room to work with.

My breathing is getting heavier. My heart pumps a little faster and harder. 

"This is all about you." I half-whisper, clutching the back of her clothes with my other hand. Trying to keep it cool. "Let me know what works. You'd be surprised to know that I haven't done this before."

* * *

The shrinking violet nature of Dirk's monologue escapes Rose in most senses, though the flavor that narrative means that there is some distant sense of him using 'pants area' in a cosmic and unironic way. Not literally, of course, but the phrase is the ultimate culmination of what he's getting after. Blushing, retiring, and virginal even if the man himself is not. The point is: if Dirk had called it her underside out loud, Rose would have made fun of him. 

She doesn't give him much in response as he paws rather inexpertly at her body through the barrier of skirt and underwear, working on giving him a hickey, lips and tongue and teeth pressed against his skin. His fingers press too far down, as if he's trying to penetrate her through her clothing. It isn't until he slips beneath her skirt and down the waistline of her panties that she pauses and gives an encouraging sort of sigh, her breath hot against his skin. 

Surprised? Is she? Rose lifts a brow invisibly from her position with her lips wrapped around the side of his neck, in the process of leaving the third in as many marks on him. For now, they're faintly reddish marks, ones made somewhat invisible by skin tone, but they'll darken to proper bruising with time. Rose has, in contrast, done this before. 

"Is it?" she asks, the words soft enough to only _just_ vibrate against his neck, "Again, your magnanimity seems to know no bounds." There is, perhaps, a touch of dryness there. She coyly offers no direction, instead tracing her hand upwards to unbutton and unzip the fly of his jeans. It takes a moment, but once she's done, her hand dips beneath the waistline of his underwear, sliding along until her fingers graze and then wrap around the base of his dick. And because she can't help herself, the first few strokes are languid and accompanied by a bout of teasing. "You seem to me far more...well, let's put this politely, shall we? Disheveled? Undone? One of those, both of them perhaps..." The distraction at hand is making her less eloquent than usual, admittedly, "...than I am. Care to comment on that?"

* * *

Fuck, she's got me. Obviously, she's got me. I let it happen to myself, nobody's fault but my own. Now I'm wondering - is this a little kinkier than normal masturbation? Am I flagellating myself by using Rose as my scourge? It sure seems that way from the outside, doesn't it? Did you think in all those years the only thing I ever did with myself is lame, boring shit? Do you think all I've ever done with my sex life is bend over for Jake in the missionary position? Here's one thing I have over you - I can do this. You will *never* have this particular kind of entertainment. Chew on that for a while.

But yes. She's absolutely got me. Even as weak as she is, my support gives her enough vigor to /bite/. I'm not going to pretend I don't like it. My fingers, nails cut as short as I can make them, press into her back. Now her shirt is bunched up a little, pulled back against her front. You will never, ever hear the words "power bottom" come out of my mouth, narrative or otherwise. I am a top. I am a power switch on my worst day. I need to stop talking.

"I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not, but if you are, your snark is _not_ appreciated." I say, sarcastically. No weird hentai moans. I'm capable of speaking fine as ever even with Rose's fingers around my dick, and her previous noises have given me a much better idea of where I should be actually aiming. The spot to hit is whichever one makes my neck thrum with the most residual sound. Closer to the top, out on the front. When Rose calls me disheveled, my immediate response is to swipe my hand through my hair and try to look cool, but both sets of digits are currently occupied.

God, when you hear your inner dialogue filtered and prism-spread through the voice of your purple-prosed ecto-daughter, you can tell me that getting turned on by it is wrong, and until then, I'll proceed to profoundly disbelieve any evidence to the contrary. "I'm not too sure. I'm trying to give some thought to it." I tell her, my brow furrowed in a mixture of effort and arousal. Letting her become an extension of myself means that somewhere, maybe not on an actively aware level, but somewhere, she can intuit most of my weaknesses. I think it might be a Seer thing. Or maybe on some level, I'm just letting her. What harm can be done by letting _me_ know _me_ better?

The bedroom kind of weakness, by the way, not the actual kind. Like I said earlier, I have zero intention of letting her stray too far. So don't get too optimistic for some kind of escape. 

The one person that could possibly get in my way isn't here anymore.

"I would point to the obvious factor that we're committing what is considered by some people to be a cardinal sin, but you're participating in it as equally as I am." I guess, knowing full well the irony of my words. My knuckles are digging into where I'm 99.9% certain her clit is, pressing up and down through her panties. I can't stop my own bodily reactions through narrative more than I can stop breathing (otherwise, certain versions of me wouldn't need to commit hilariously awesome suicide via bell tower), so Rose's hand is marred by a tiny droplet of precum here and there at her long, slow strokes. "So, my only conclusion to draw from that is that somehow you've been more prepared for this than I have. How dirty of you, if that's the case." I say, matter of factly, finally releasing the long, built up hiss of noise at her next hickey, my body sort of slumping towards her before I catch myself. 

Knowing her predilection for the Victorian and Gothic, it wouldn't surprise me if I was, as usual, right.

* * *

Rose's shirt is tugged tight against the hollow of her ribs and her small breasts, ones whose shape is not concealed by the foam padding of a typical bra. At best, she's wearing a bralette. As Dirk's fingers just graze her clit, she lets out a faint hiss of frustration. She's not certain he knows what he's looking for, but his words distract her from that line of thought.

Images filter through her consciousness, ones involving a pair of teenagers alone in a doomed timeline with no guidance and access to alcohol...and without knowledge of the bonds of blood, of course. Who would be surprised that something happened between them? Certainly not those who paid attention. But with that barb and the knowing-without-knowing of Dirk's self-flagellation laid bare, she reaches up from where her hand was resting on his abdomen to let her arm snake behind his head, fingers curling in on a fistful of hair. She tugs backward, only just hard enough to sting. Her other hand's stroking slows, fingers half-releasing before engulfing the head of his dick. It is meant, absolutely, to frustrate. An eye for an eye.

As this has happened, she's also pulled back to stare him down, the light of her eyes illuminating his face. For a moment, she doesn't say anything. She lets any potential frustration build. Her expression is sly and self-satisfied, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her smeared mouth. Playing the scourge, after all, is the name of the game. 

"Oh, is it not something you appreciate?" Her sarcasm matches his. "And is this something I am doing of my own volition? Need we discuss the concept of self, to establish what an individual is and is not?" Even if she isn't truly aware of being shadowed, a Seer's intuition can still put words in her mouth. "I can certainly stop what I am doing here," her hand slows to an agonizing pace, her touch feather-light, "so we can discuss this in detail and so you can take a moment to consult Google Maps on the most direct route to finding the clitoris."

The problem with giving your fleshlight the power to talk back to you is that, having seen the depths of your depravity and little else about who you are as a person, it will never have a single kind word to spare. Sex robots, it must be said, are inherently a terrible idea and a sex robot given sexual power is a worse one regardless of whether it tops or not. And besides, it must be noted that to top does not necessitate control. A top necessitates penetration. Toxic masculinity has equated penetration with control, true, but its shortcomings are blindingly obvious to anyone with their eyes open. Rose Lalonde, one wholly suited to the definition of 'power bottom', has her eyes wide open. She would call Dirk a service top, but is this not him playing Narcissus and jerking off to his own reflection using a sentient sex toy?


	9. Chapter 9

Fuck, that hurts - but finally, someone who _gets it_. Without explanation or diatribe. Jake had to be guided through with an 'It's fine, it's fine, it's fine, it's fine', every time he did something even slightly painful. No, Rose just pulls. The part of me just above the physical wants to reach down a phantasmal hand, pat her on the head, and say 'Attagirl', or something patronizing like that, but my unfortunate meat suit just has his breath caught in his throat. God, I _squeaked_. I didn't even know I could make that kind of noise. I straighten my hair month after month for shit like this and Rose just goes for it. I'm so proud, a single tear beads up in the corner of my eye, threatening to drop off my cheek. The dim shadows in my studio are cast away from my face as she illuminates every angle and curve.

My light.

Not to get too purple here with my prose - that's her job. Even I have to give her props for that sick burn, and how angry my dick is at all of the sensation combined. The aural, the physical, and so on. When she pulls, when she taunts, it twitches, sputters a little, like my own physical voice. And when she challenges me to pull out a GPS and steer my way into knowing what the fuck I'm doing, I can't help but crack a smile.

"I personally would prefer that stopping not be in the cards." I hiss through a mouthful of grit teeth, my grimace and my smirk combining into a taut, pulled-back grin that quickly disperses. I look back at her like I'm staring into the sun, but my shades are on my soul - it doesn't hurt. When she pulls, my hand on her back tenses up and then lets go, letting her shirt snap back to its prior shape, while my other hand twists up at the wrist.

I'm trying to think of some way to respond. It's not going well, clearly, since you can tell that I'm stalling for time. It's not like I didn't expect this all the way back from the first Rose's POV section of Chapter 8. And that shape from her doomed self? Absolutely salacious. Maybe I'll tease her about it later, but for now, it's going in the file. I guess she got me on the top/bottom thing, too? Whatever. I don't actually care that much.

I drag my hand up and further under her shirt, the pads of my fingertips calloused, slightly scarred from the flecks of sparks of welding tools. I get them under her panties and start from the middle, dragging my middle finger up until I find what I'm looking for. It's a lot easier to find without clothes in the way. "Besides, it was a short trip. Knock knock." I say, letting my head loll back a little to give her hand more slack on my hair. All part of the games we play.

* * *

Rose is radiant and unmoved, thoroughly entrenched in her air of smugness even in the face of the positively crunchy sensation of straightened hair—which at least isn't drowning in a lethal dose of hair gel, small mercies—while his dick twitches in her hand, sure proof that he's enjoying himself. This is meant to be masturbatory. Is it any surprise that the brain of 23-year-old Dirk as filtered through the lens of a snarky literature girl is pleased? 

At his admission, she firms her grip and returns to a less agonizing pace. Unlike his, her hand is soft and half-slick with precum, thumb pressing with gentle insistence right beneath the head with each stroke. Stopping isn't in the cards, but neither is mercy. She pulls just a little harder at his hair, eyes skittering over and past the tear he's shed. More dark, finned shapes of who-knows-what flit through the submerged parts of her head. The radiant smugness cools a few degrees and she breaks eye contact, but there are no other changes. 

_(It bears repeating that the only person capable of getting in my way is no longer here.)_

It is in this dimmed radiance that she sucks a breath in through her teeth as his roughened fingertips find their way home without the helpful feminine tones of the default Maps navigator. Bravo. "It certainly took you long enough for such a short trip. How many U-turns did you take again?" Not that the U-turns were entirely pointless: she's wet enough that his fingers don't hit her clit totally dry. Rose shifts, repositioning herself so that his fingers sit where she's most sensitive. 

The loll of his head lets her admire her handiwork; she tugs again to put the hickeys she's given him on display. They can't be concealed easily with the collar of a shirt and the concealer she carries doesn't quite match him. Excellent.

"I take it from your silence that this is, indeed, something you appreciate, by the way. The Prince doth protest too much." She leaves the 'methinks' off. Only insufferably pretentious assholes of the highest caliber say that.

* * *

I'm not here to shed a single tear more. The jolt of the initial pain is past me, and the pain wasn't why I teared up anyway, so try not to read into it too much. The pain is good. It keeps me a little grounded in reality. There is such a thing, believe it or not, as being too solipsistic. I'm not sure what would happen if I managed to retreat entirely within my narrative, but it can't be pretty. Or maybe I just end up voring all identities into my own, which would be pretty, so... I'll tuck it into consideration.

Her hand is pretty thoroughly slick now, enough that each stroke glides up and down, far better than my previous attempts at making sex robots. Both in terms of the responsiveness, and the feeling. My mouth is hanging slightly agape, although the slow upward drawing of my jaw heavily implies it'd like to be shut, my tongue pressed out into my lower lip. "Bite me." I say, cleverly, once she makes her quip about U-Turns. The repositioning is helpful, and I reward her help by actually starting to finger her. Can't be too different from a dude, or anything too far off what his books said.

My middle finger swirls and presses, approaching from every angle, every sideways and clockwise and inward and upward, testing what she likes. Occasionally, I bring my pointer finger in to go for something like a pinch, when it's out enough to do so. Her tugs show off a luminous line of beautifully developing hickeys, and once again, I am proud of her handiwork. Should I feel the need to leave the house, I'll wear them proudly, even if I'm not exactly forthcoming on who the new flame is. Let people have their rumors. 

Or not, if I have anything to do with their narrative.

My other arm has slid down from her shoulders to more of a middle back situation, now that she's propped herself up right and proper, capable of sitting and using much more force than her delicate frame would imply (you're welcome). I'm almost cradling her, and the blanket that shrouded her dainty form has at this point slithered its way down to the middle of her shins just by our motion, threatening to fall off the bed as if I care about what an inanimate object thinks.

"If I didn't appreciate it, I'd ask you to stop." I hiss, my face alternating between frustrated, angry, and, let's call a spade a spade here (not in the caliginous sense), aroused, open-mouthed, flush-faced aroused. "But I'll have to insist there be no more Shakespeare for the rest of this Act."

* * *

He's adventurous, she'll give him that. "Over to the left just a touch," she murmurs, breathing growing heavier. Every once in a while, a soft sound escapes her. Rose has never been one for volume, though, particularly when it comes to being the one in control. Or, at least _sort_ of in control. "There, yes. The lips too." It's nonsense mumbling, barely audible, and happens as interjections while he tries different techniques. His hand, by this point, is as slick as hers.

And, just like that, any further thoughts about referencing Shakespeare vanish. It's a reasonable-enough request  _(it is not a request)_ , so why not honor it? "So be it."

Besides, he's not bad with his hands. Not bad enough, in fact, to be a bit distracting. Anything that falls from her lips might sound clumsy or poorly thought-out at this point. She puts her mouth to better use instead, leaning forward to place another hickey where his neck and shoulder meet. And...bite him? Perhaps later, but this is more fun at the moment. Her puffs of breath feel cool against his saliva-wettened skin, but warm elsewhere and her brow is invisibly knitted with arousal, eyelids fluttering from half-lidded to closed when he does something just right.

Leaning forward and out of her somewhat-awkward position, she half-lays across his arm, one breast pressing against his chest and the grip on his hair easing. She pauses for a moment in jerking him off to readjust her angle before continuing, slick fingertips questing down to briefly cup and massage his balls space of that pause. The blanket slides further down, holding on only by the grace of the heels of her feet. Only half-aware of what she's doing, she kicks it the rest of the way off. 

Her light fills the room fully, painting brightness where shadows should be and illuminating her skin beneath her clothes. The arm around her back and the hand between her legs would show up starkly to any casual observer, shadowed as they are by such an unusual light source. If there's any justice, he'll get some awkward sunburns...but there won't be. It's not that kind of light.

* * *

The sensations are a morass. A mixture. An amalgam of sensory input filtered up through the nerves of my body, with her cold lips and her warm breath forming patches of temperature where there's still saliva left over. My eyes remain as open as I can get them, our figures finally arranged in some non-obtrusive combination of limb formations that lets us have easy access to each other in all the ways that are really important.

My fingers rearrange themselves like an engine changing clutch, trying out different combinations in order to best get my ectodaughter off. Her grip on my head is just strong and obtrusive enough to stop me from doing anything with my neck besides leaving it open for her to play with. And - holy shit she's bright. Now my eyes snap shut into a firm squint. 

I'm a pretty easily pleased dude, so just the act of stroking, and the breathing, our temperatures starting to get closer to matching, it's all good. It's all enough. When she squeezes my balls I let out a light groan that makes my chest rumble, and I pull her closer to my chest, digging my fingers into her folds. It's an interesting sensation, and I can tell you, nothing like putting a finger inside someone's asshole. I can't say yet whether I like it more or less, but the physical reminders, the wetness that's not from lube, that's something nice. Her body responding for her. Doing all the talking. It takes the ambiguity out.

I try curling up in a little because I'm not stupid. I know it's a hole. The texture is new, but I glide in easily enough. Using my knuckles doesn't give me enough leverage, so I more work my wrist. Gentle enough to not clip anything, or give stuff a rough poke, just in and out. On my end of the equation, I'm rock hard, my dick out and about, all jutting and impudent and covered in a thin slick of precum that reflects off her light. Before you ask, hey Dirk, aren't your eyes closed? Yeah, they are, but if you're still thinking about this from the perspective of my actual eyes you haven't learned a goddamn thing. So just don't worry about it.

I consider asking something like "How're you holding up?", but I decide against it. There's pressure building up in my thighs and toes, causing them to curl against the edge of the couch they're dangling off of, my body starting to get slowly tenser and tenser.

* * *

The sensations that filter through her are honey-warm, languorous, and...as loathe as she is to admit it while playing scourge, deliciously welcome

How long has it been since Rose was last intimate with Kanaya? Well, it's really none of your business, but for the sake of things, let's just say it's been a long time. Much too long a time. Long enough, in fact, that her sensitivity is approaching the annoying. It's difficult to maintain interest when a relationship with one's partner goes from a meeting of equals to a caregiving situation, but that's a thing of the past. The narrative has moved forward and, as if to underscore that, the noises that are pulled from her are begrudging and desperate, going sharp before then end in a ragged rush of breath, all of them vibrating against his skin.

She holds out as long as she can, she really and truly does, before finishing embarrassingly fast with a moan that is positively torn from her and then half-lost in a rushing exhalation of air. Her back arches, hips rocking against his fingers with the force of the motion. There was an expectation that she could outlast him...which has proven to be sadly incorrect. Damn him.

As she cums she gives her handful of his hair a sharp tug, a sort of how-dare-you gesture. Not satisfied with this alone, she also clamps her teeth around the meat of his shoulder after coming back to herself, rocking away from his hand this time. That momentary and tyrannical over-sensitivity is a terrible thing. The bite, meanwhile, isn't hard enough to break the skin, much less bruise it, though it does stand as a nice and painful counterpoint to the hair-pulling. What? He _did_ invite her to. Well, sort of.

If her mouth wasn't busy, she'd certainly tell him to finish, already, and stop making such a production of being a piss-pool Narcissus. The tenseness of his body hasn't gone unnoticed, though: she speeds up, adding a slight but deft twist of her wrist. Her grip eases and then firms again and she leaves off the tooth impressions on his skin to half-turn her head, gazing back at his dick out of the corner of her eye. The sun-bright glow of her slowly wanes to tolerable levels as her fallible human form finds a balance between the Ultimate and the achievable.

* * *

It's really all a shame that all of this culminated in this moment. It's not a shame to me, because I'm here, living and loving it, and it's not a shame to Rose: she's having a good time with more vigor in the past ten minutes than she's had in the past couple of months combined. Strength is empowering - this is a fundamental axiom of the universe. No, what's really a shame is that Kanaya had to go and let Rose's condition ruin all of this. I totally get it, I really do, not many people can manage as many spinning plates as I can, but still, it's a little regrettable. I just feel bad for her, honestly. I feel bad for both of them, but Kanaya more-so.

I'll be taking care of Rose, so those bad feelings have mostly dissipated into the void, at least on my end of the bargain. I'm sure Rose might have something lingering there. Maybe its anger, or exasperation. Her _fascinating_ inner dialogue keeps me clued into all the important details, so thanks to her for continuing to have it. Dunno what I'd do without it (that's a lie, I'd just write my own for her). 

When she cums, it's a more muted satisfaction than the other person I've been with. The moaning is a lovely audible treat, the way she presses up against me, it's definitely different. There's less to clean up, although my hand is still sticky and wet, so not much different there. What's really interesting to me is the way she reacts, because when Jake cums, he crumples, but when Rose cums, apparently she starts going harder. I like that. It's a good trait to have, especially since it's one I tend to share.

Not sure about in this particular situation. We'll have to see. Either way, her pulling and tugging gets me in the mood more than ever, and my breath is coming out in shallow, ruddy waves, passing over my lower lip as my face screws shut and I pull myself in a little closer like I'm collapsing onto her. A tug and a bite, the pain sears so well, it's everything I could've wanted in a sensation. It makes me feel a little more alive than I felt five minutes ago. It's everything. The sun and her body and the pain and then I start cumming.

It's sudden, like hers, but not unexpected. My body clenches up everywhere, legs pulling in a way that pushes her up a little further on my lap, threatening to crush her with my grip (not literally, that would be fucking stupid). It spurts up like a broken water fountain, making a general mess of the place, on my shirt, her shirt, my stomach, into my pants, and her hand. Mostly her hand and my stomach. It comes out in bursts and waves and thin ropes, quickly calming down to a healthy level while my grip begins to relax, my breathing heavy and even.

"That was nice, wasn't it?" I half-groan, half-whisper into her ear. It was, wasn't it? I don't think that was bad at all. Quite the opposite, and I'm sure we're of one mind on the issue.

* * *

A narrative certainty breeds fact. Had there been lingering feelings before now? Perhaps, perhaps not. What Rose now feels, however, is an exasperated sort of anger at feeling like a child for so long. At the weakness of her body engendering a different sort of dynamic than previously had been present, at the worried and almost-judgmental looks at the use of painkillers for pain management, at the necessity of keeping tabs on her whereabouts 'just in case'...it all adds up. The sum total? It rankles. But this is neither the time or the place. She does her best to let the feelings go and focus on the moment.

Dirk's movements shuffle her further into his lap and as he cums, she keeps stroking, not quite feeling cruel enough to deprive him of sensation in the face of his orgasm. White paints her hand, his shirt, and even reaches so far as her shirt and their shared laps. It's far messier than she was, certainly, but not messier than she's accustomed to. As he finishes and begins to soften, she releases him, making a show of wiping her hand off on his shirt with a smug little smile. By this point, the brightness isn't overwhelming.

With the faded glow from her eyes and the light back to inverted shadows, some fatigue begins to showcase itself again. As he leans into her, she returns the favor, her hands falling to rest on his shoulder and his thigh respectively. As for how it was? Naturally, the two of them are of one mind on the matter. 

"Yes, it was very nice." Her voice is soft and her eyes are half-lidded, mirror-bright and ringed by orange as they are. "But now I would like a shower and a change of clothes." Well, perhaps not a shower unless he has a shower chair, otherwise, a bath will have to do. "...And a nap, of course." Of course. Fatigue is a powerful thing. Powerful enough to remind her of the earlier thoughts of Kanaya, even. "I believe I should also make an effort to check my phone. I failed to text Kanaya when I left my apartment..." The exasperated anger resurfaces, "...but that can wait, I think." 

Despite the declarations of things that need to be done, she makes no effort to move, instead taking comfort from closeness and simply basking in the glow for a moment. There's no rush, particularly with the apathy she feels about the upcoming text conversation about her whereabouts. Her breathing is slow and steady and she soaks up the warmth that radiates off of him. Yes, that was very nice indeed.

**Author's Note:**

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